


The Size of the Fight

by skyenapped



Category: The Following
Genre: Angst, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:36:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyenapped/pseuds/skyenapped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I guess what I’m saying is, I know who you are, Ryan. And I love you anyway.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Size of the Fight

**Author's Note:**

> Moments when Ryan and Mike’s lives begin to overlap. 
> 
> Forgive me if this is a bit OOC. I don't feel like I have their voices down very well just yet, but I love them so much I had to write it anyway. [Unbeta'd because I'm lazy. Lyrics are from Trying to Matter by Gary Allan.]

 

 _“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the dog.” –_ Mark Twain

**I.**

****

_We walk, we fly_   
_We stay sober, we get high_   
_Right or wrong, we live our lives_

_*_

 

The problem with being brave is that it fucking hurts. It sounds great – people talk about it all the time, talk about what it would be like to be fearless, to protect something or someone with your own life, your body, your silence. But when the time comes to walk the walk, only a few actually work up the nerve. After all, pain and fear can wreak havoc on even the toughest will. 

 

So Mike learned the hard way that being brave wasn't just about enduring physical trauma. Sure, he learned that a knife wound could demand hours of surgery and thirty-eight staples and mandatory leave from the Bureau. He learned it was really difficult to change a bandage alone and that just about every movement required the use of his core and he learned what it sounded like when he gasped every time he sat up too quickly. He learned that in boredom and pain was a lousy way to spend his time. But beyond that, he learned what it was like not to sleep through the night, for reasons other than the fading efficacy of a pain pill. He learned how much he’d taken for granted having a normal startle response, one that didn’t send him reeling at even the slightest, most harmless sounds: footsteps on the floor above him, the microwave beeping, a distant scream on the television.  

 

And he learned every lesson about taking on a villain like Joe Carroll the hard way.

 

He would have felt even more useless had he not been in so much pain. He was opposed to narcotics, as a general rule, but he chased the maximum dose with nearly every swallow of water, said a brief prayer for his liver, and yet still walked around flinching or curled into a fetal position staring at his badge. But he didn’t feel bad for himself and he didn’t regret what he’d done, though it may have looked like it on the outside. Fortunately, there was no one there to see him. That was, until Ryan showed up –and Mike held his breath, and exhaled quietly, and his whole aura screamed  _repressed emotion_ but he couldn't help it, and Ryan didn't comment, and Mike was grateful. 

 

He was so sick of lying on his right side and failing to get any sleep. He was sick of wondering who was covering for him and if they were doing an adequate job. He was sick of thinking every sound was nefarious. He was sick of his thoughts bounding off the walls and so, yeah, maybe he needed the company after all. Of course, want and need were becoming more and more tricky to separate and had been somewhat convoluted ever since he and Ryan first met. He wouldn't tell anyone, though –at least no one else who hadn't already noticed – and Ryan seemed willing enough to give him a break and not bring it up or point it out, which Mike both appreciated and resented.

 

Ryan had come by before, a few times, to check in, but never stayed too long; always had somewhere to be. Yet he always shut the door with just enough hesitation that it was noticeable; gave insight to his feelings without him ever saying a word, though it was subtle on a level that made it difficult to tell if it was deliberate. Mike was forward and Ryan wasn’t. He was reserved and jaded by the Bureau and by Joe and while being difficult to read had once been a defense mechanism, Mike presumed it was probably just a habit by now. It should've bothered Mike, annoyed him; no time for that level of emotional vacancy, but it didn't, and he wasn't bothered, and he still thought about Ryan's book and he still knew about his family and his heart and his history before Joe and with Claire and after Joe and so on. And Mike wondered if he was worthy enough to fit anywhere on Ryan's timeline at all, and if he'd be more than a minor ripple; more than some kid who was too eager, too impressed, and whose gaping, gushing stab wound had to be sealed off with Ryan's hand for eleven minutes and twenty-one seconds. He hoped he might be a light of some kind, perhaps at the end of the tunnel; a sigh of relief in the middle of all of the tragedy and loss.

 

But at the moment, Mike doubted it. He’d protected Claire just to get himself almost mortally wounded and now Ryan was left to help him deal with the fallout. He was supposed to help Ryan; make his job easier, not harder. If he couldn’t do that, he thought, then what the hell was he doing on this case?  

 

Mike was so lost in thinking about his insecurities that he didn't notice the bandage around his stomach was soaked or even wet until Ryan pointed at where it had been bleeding right through his t-shirt. Suddenly, Ryan was concerned, all over again, like in the warehouse, or at the farmhouse – a flicker of overwhelming humanity in his expression that no one else seemed ready to spare if even in possession of to start with. And Jesus Christ, Joe and his team had killed _dozens_ of people – a blood trail going for miles upon miles – yet this was the most emotion Mike had ever seen him have in any of the aftermath. He hoped – he really, _really_ hoped – it wasn't the Oxy causing him to be reading it all wrong. Because that would hurt more than the tentative hand moving painfully close to the ill-healing wound, and he tensed up preemptively and shut his eyes and squeezed and the bandage unraveled slow and soiled, but it didn't hurt as much as when he did it himself. And when Mike realized that, he could breathe.

 

"Thanks," he muttered, blocking a full body tremble he could feel coming on at the sight of his own blood and the metal holding his flesh together and the entire ordeal that flooded back to him. This was a whole new kind of pain that he was completely unfamiliar with but that Ryan seemed to recognize all too well.

 

He grunted something in response and nodded, then disappeared for thirty seconds – because he'd learned his way around when he'd brought Mike back from the hospital – and returned with clean bandages.

 

When Mike was curled up again, right side down, clean bandage, clean shirt, and Ryan was wordlessly bringing him water and pills, he knew it was absolutely the worst time to ask the question, to ask _any_ questions, really, to say anything except "thank you". But they'd been to hell and back together and Mike thought – and hoped, and prayed – that he'd earned the right to cross this kind of line. With the situation they were in, there would _never_ be a good time. There was always pain; someone was always hurt. So if not now, when?

 

Mike was still struggling internally with knowing he wasn't being treated like Joe Carroll-collateral damage like everyone else. Which wasn’t to say Ryan didn’t routinely risk his life to save everyone Joe targeted, but he certainly didn’t have the energy or time to follow up on their well-being for weeks after. So Mike wondered what it meant, if it meant anything at all or if he was just losing his mind from hearing the sound of his own orbital fracture replaying over and over in his head, or if it was real, and more than just obligation on Ryan’s part. And he thought maybe – possibly – it _was_ more. Because let’s be honest: Ryan Hardy wasn't obligated to do a damn thing for anyone. 

 

It could've been pity, maybe, or guilt, except that Mike had seen those seep through Ryan's armor on one or two occasions (not for him, but for someone else) and this looked pointedly different. So Mike swallowed his oxycodone and his NSAID and then – because he still heard the sound in his head of the knife cutting through his muscle and he still knee-jerk reacted to anything louder than white noise, and because he felt like he was getting worse instead of better, and because he was a hundred times more afraid now than he'd been in the actual warehouse getting the actual shit beat out of him — he went for it.

 

The worst Ryan could do was leave. Of course, while that sounded harmless enough, Mike knew it would hurt him more than anything else. But then again, what was one more risk?

 

"Are you in love with Claire?"

 

The question rolled off Mike's tongue heavy and nervous and then it was out, on the air, demanding an answer while he dreaded one at the same time. But Mike couldn't quite regret asking, not entirely, not through the wave of relief that swept over him at having had the courage to ask in the first place. It was pounds and pounds off his shoulders.

 

Ryan's half-smirk was trademark but uncommon and Mike still never quite knew what it meant, though he probably had a clearer understanding of it than anyone else. It was bitter, but amused; nostalgic in a sad but resigned way, kind of like, _I live in the past but I write today’s date._ A million and one expressions loaded in just the soft half-curve of his lips. Mike had memorized it on day one (another thing he wouldn’t tell anybody).

 

"No." It was a quiet answer, resolute; confirmed with a soft shake of the head. 

 

Mike pushed because he could get away with it or because the medication was getting to work and it didn’t really matter which of the two was more responsible. "But you used to be. Right?"

 

"Used to be a lot of things, Mike." 

 

Maybe: happy, healthy, sober, pacemaker-free; no Joe Carroll tunnel-vision, no vendettas, no vengeance, no guilt. Mike thought: _It must feel even longer ago than it was._ He decided to leave it alone after that. Ryan had told him what he wanted to know.

 

The narcotic warmth swept over him in the next ten minutes, pacified him, lured him to sleep, and he hardly remembered the sound of the door clicking when Ryan left quietly, and very, very slowly. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  **II.**

 

_We work, we play_   
_We leave, and we stay_   
_We worry about tomorrow, today_

 

*

 

There wasn't anyone Ryan particularly opened up to. Claire, perhaps, but that was a long time ago; back when there wasn't a whole lot to open up about. Things were complicated then, of course, but on a tamer level; a terrible situation but a situation one could still come back from. Not anymore.

 

He told his sister a lot, but only when she pushed, and eventually he succeeded in shutting her out like he’d done with the rest of the world. It was just easier that way.

 

So suddenly finding himself so entangled in Mike's life and Mike in his was unexpected. But it felt right. It felt right to methodically change his bandages – and he was convinced the wound was his fault anyway – and to talk to him quietly, calmly, about, well, everything. About Joe and Claire and hope and fear and life and death and vodka and everything else weighing down on him, on them both. It was cathartic. It lessened the pain, lifted a heavy, long-sitting emotional weight. 

 

Ryan could confide in Mike because Mike was different. Because he’d risked everything for Ryan for what looked, at first, like no reason at all. He had a disturbing lack of self-preservation unlike other agents, and, well, people in general. And Mike couldn't be as devoted to his career as he was and then take those grossly miscalculated risks unless he was definitely, one-hundred percent, neck-deep, head-first, totally-screwed in love. It was a lot to consider, but at the end of the day, it was the only explanation that would hold up under any kind of cross-examination.

 

Above all, Ryan trusted him.  _Could_ trust him. That in and of itself was something Ryan was more than hard-pressed to come by. 

 

But he was conflicted. Because Mike was young and promising and in two weeks time he'd been shot and stabbed and now he was limping around a hotel room, grimacing, whimpering, throwing the sheets off the bed during the ruthless onset of a flashback. There was still time to salvage him, Ryan realized, if he backed off. He decided he had to give the kid an out; it wouldn't be fair not to. And it didn't matter if Mike might be Ryan's saving grace; his Hail Mary in a long, bloody, relentless cache of bad luck and carnage. That wasn’t a good enough reason to ruin him more than he already had. 

 

And there was no other way to say it. 

 

_"I can't ruin you."_

 

Four words and a Tuesday evening and gauze on the floor, and a shrinking two feet of distance between their waists. And Mike didn't even ask Ryan to elaborate.

 

"You can't,” he said, smug, feigning pride. He was going to win this one, play on Ryan's words, exploit them; capitalize on his inability to say more than a few at a time. "I'm indestructible."

 

Ryan smirked, looked down, away, appreciated the joke, knew that Mike knew that was naive; _no one_ was indestructible – not even the two of them, _especially_ not the two of them, not anyone. His expression graduated to wistful. Mike didn't completely get it; hadn’t learned all about the death curse that seemed to apply to everyone Ryan cared about.

 

"I mean," Ryan sighed, pained, exhausted. "I destroy the people I—" He stopped himself, looked up, caught wildly blue and hopeful eyes, looked down again, rephrased. "I'm no good, Mike."

 

Mike just stood, just watched, just listened – just silently, strongly, endlessly, vehemently disagreed. 

                                                                                                                                             

Ryan bit his lip and thought. There was selfish love, he knew, and selfless love, and mad love, which was really a combination of the first two, and he had loved Claire the second way – loved her so much that he’d stayed the hell away, that he’d let her go. But Mike, well, Mike drew out of Ryan’s core the epitome of mad love. The unstable, unexpected, irrational, codependent, I-know-I’m-bad-for-you-and-I’m-trying-to-stay-away-but-I-can’t kind. The kind that eventually gives in, despite all logic, because the amount that he wanted to protect him and the amount that he _just plain wanted him_ were equal parts strong. It wasn’t ideal, or sane, but then again, love never was, was it?

 

"I'll burn you out,” Ryan persisted. “I'll tire you, wear you down. I'll…fast-forward your perception of life by twenty years. You don't…you don’t need that, Mike.”  

 

"I don't care." Mike's words were fast, reflexive. But he had heard. He had listened. He still meant it.

 

Ryan swallowed, looked at him thoughtfully, "You wi—"

 

"I. Don't. Care,” Mike repeated, and grabbed his hand – a risky, but necessary move. He nodded down toward his stomach, toward the incision, and changing the subject, he added, "I'm bleeding, Ryan."

 

"Yeah, okay, kid.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**III.**

 

_I’ve lived, I’ve learned_   
_That bridges don’t just burn_   
_That’s the devil’s selfish pride at work_

 

*

 

"I want Weston in here, stat—"

 

"It wasn't him," Ryan interrupted, hands on hips. 

 

It was the second time Donovan’s e-mail had been hacked, and he was pissed. Only this time it really _hadn’t_ been Mike.

 

Parker chimed in from across the room, arms folded. "How can you be so sure?"

 

"You really think Mike did this? Really, Debra?" Ryan shook his head, laughed caustically; deflected. "Come on, he's practically a martyr for the Bureau! He'd die before he’d betray it."

 

"I think we both know he's more of a martyr for you than the Bureau," Parker said, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“Whose side are you on here?”

“I’m just trying to get to the bot—”

 

“This isn’t about sides!” Donovan shouted, intercepting the argument. “This is about how it’s the second time agent Weston has violated Bureau security and I’m starting to take it personally.”

 

Ryan sighed, mild haze of alcohol pulling his features down, stifling his ability to fight anyone with too much effort. "Look, I'm just telling you that you're looking in the wrong place, okay? Mike didn't do this."

"And besides the fact that he knows your life story and throws himself in the gauntlet every time he thinks you might benefit from his own sacrifice, _how do you know?"_

“I just know, okay?”

 

Donovan shook his head, impatient, “Well that’s not a good enough answer, Hardy.” he said, heading to the door. “I want him in my office in five minutes. If I let him go with a suspension he’ll be lucky.”

 

He left Ryan and Parker behind in an uncomfortable staring contest.

 

“What it is, Ryan?” she finally asked, noting the extra tension in his face.

 

"I was with him last night," Ryan admitted, tucking his head. He wasn’t sure what would get Mike in more trouble; letting him take the fall for whoever had _actually_ done the hacking or telling the truth. But so far the possibility of the former happening didn’t sound too promising.

 

Parker didn't catch on.

 

"There was more than enough time after you got back for this to happen. The e-mail wasn't even hacked until after midnight. What were you two even looking for this time, anyway? Nick Donovan isn’t a Follower, okay? I can promise you that."

 

"All night," Ryan specified. He drew his head further down, along with his voice, and then slowly looked Parker in the eye. "I was with him all night," he told her honestly.

 

"Are you trying to protect him? Because—"

 

“Of course I’m trying to protect him! Why aren’t you?” Ryan snapped. He lowered his voice and shrugged. “Besides it’s…the truth. All right, we…”

 

Parker's face contorted in realization. “Jesus Christ, Ryan!” she snapped, voice hushed but strained. She glanced to the door and back. “That kid is barely old enough to drive the rental cars we give him!”

 

“I know.”

_“Ryan—”_  
  
“I said I know. Okay? Now can we get him off the hook? Please?”

 

Parker was silent for a moment, and then dropped her arms. “I’ll…talk to Nick,” she sighed.

 

Ryan nodded gratefully. When Parker cast him one last look (of disappointment, maybe, and a little hope) before walking out, he took a deep breath and pressed his temple. Telling one or two agents about them felt like telling the world. And he didn’t know how to tell Mike he’d told the world.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

  **IV.**

_Trying to matter to somebody_   
_Trying to get the time of day_   
_Trying to fit into this crazy world_   
_Somehow, somewhere, some way_

 

*

 

It wasn’t a fight on Friday evening when Ryan confronted Mike in an office at headquarters, but it wasn’t civil either. Where emotions lie, civility is often scarce. That was something Ryan had learned well over the years. It didn’t mean it hurt any less.

 

Mike reacted without incident to discovering that Parker and Donovan knew about their relationship – that is, of course, if long talks and confiding and random nights qualified as such – but less so to Ryan’s stipulation that it should all probably come to a halt now.

 

Better to stop while the damage was minimal, Ryan had decided, while Mike was alive and whole. Only problem was how far he’d already fallen – how far they’d _both_ fallen – and how much harder it would be to stop than to just keep going, because after all, an object in motion tended to stay in motion. Inertia and all that; it applied to love just as well, apparently.

 

It wasn’t until the pain transferred from Mike’s voice to his face that the reality sank in, that Ryan’s heart began to beat a little faster, hands sweated from guilt.

 

Mike was nodding furiously and in denial, and choking back emotion because God forbid he show any at work or in front of Ryan, Man of Stone.

 

“Look,” Ryan said, following him as he paced the room. “I have already put a bullseye on your back _three times now_. That’s on _me_ , Mike! Don’t you get it? Joe _knows_ what you mean to me. He knows. And he targets the people I give a shit about. And I—I can’t do it anymore. I can’t drag you in his line of fire and expect you keep taking bullets for me.”

 

“Is that really what this is about?”

 

“Yeah. Yes. Why?”

 

Mike shrugged and smiled bitterly, “I don’t know, it’s just like, it isn’t until you had to come clean to Parker that you’re telling me to stop calling you, and I don’t know, I just feel like you weren’t really worried about me taking any bullets last night and—”

 

“Whoa,” Ryan put up his hand to stop him. “I am _always_ worried about that.”

 

Mike stared, expectantly, like Ryan should have had more to say for himself than that. But he didn’t. He scrambled for something, for words, anything, but what to say was lost on him. He’d been through this a dozen times and yet it had never stung quite so much with anyone else, and he felt like nothing he came up with would even do the situation justice. It was a weight he’d carried a long time, except now it was heavier, and crushing, and he was exhausted.

 

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke again, “I got nothin’, Mike.”

 

Mike nodded once, looked down, and then slowly walked away, down a hallway, toward an exit. Ryan stood stoically, pushing back against all the emotions that never did him any good, never paid off in the end, never were worth the pain, until he lost the fight and they flooded his system at once. He took off in Mike’s direction.

 

Halfway through the building, walking swiftly, he was forced to stop when Parker grabbed his arm.

 

“I can’t right now, Debra, I gotta go,” he explained hurriedly.

 

She looked more empathetic than usual and Ryan figured she’d seen Mike leaving.  

 

“I just wanted to tell you that Mike is in the clear.  Someone in IT was working for the press. Nick handled it. So Mike’s…he’s good.”

 

Ryan looked back and said, slowly, before turning to leave, “Thank-you.”

 

Parker nodded, and then called, “Hey—”

 

Still grateful, but mildly impatient, he spun around again, and continued backing toward a distant door. “Yeah?”

 

“Be careful with that kid, Ryan. He has no idea who he fell in love with.”

 

 

*

 

 

It was a few shades darker than dusk when Ryan made it outside, and it was raining lightly. He managed to catch up to Mike a few strides from a parking lot.

 

 _“Mike!”_ he shouted.

 

Mike ignored him and continued walking purposefully toward his car, keys clenched tightly in a fist by his side.

 

Ryan sighed and picked up his pace. _“Mike!”_ he called again. “Damn it, Mike, stop!”

 

 _“What?!”_ Mike spun around so abruptly that they nearly collided.

 

Ryan took a few steps back and hesitated, recovering from Mike’s tone. It was angry, hurt, betrayed; the antithesis of how Mike usually spoke to him, and it went right to his heart.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. He’d apologized so many times in his life he thought it should come easier by now, but it didn’t. He could hardly even make eye contact.

 

Understandably, Mike wasn’t satisfied. “Don’t be,” he snapped, and then, with less attitude and more resignation, added, “It’s raining, Ryan. It’s dark, and it’s cold, and I can’t do this. So I’m gonna turn around and go home.”

 

Ryan nodded slowly, but when Mike turned to go, he stopped him again. _“Wait…”_

 

Mike looked frustrated, but patient, the way he always was, the way he’d been with Ryan since the beginning.

 

“Wait for what?” he asked, voice more tired than angry now. “Wait for you to figure it all out? Wait for you to decide if you really wanna be with me? Decide if I’m worth it? Well, I have. I’ve waited. And now…now it’s too hard, okay? Waiting for you, it… it hurts too much.”

 

“Mike,” Ryan sighed, regretful. He looked down at his soaked shoes and then back at Mike. “I don’t know what to do about this, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want— It’s complicated. You know that.”

 

“Yeah,” Mike nodded, took a step forward. “Yeah, I do know, Ryan. I know everything!” he tossed his hands up and let them fall back hard against his sides. “So you don’t have to pretend you can’t tell me, or explain it, or sugarcoat it, or blame it on Parker and Donovan knowing about us, when we both know that has nothing to do with anything. You’ve been distant from the get go and I know why.”

 

Ryan watched him, listened as Mike went off on a breathless rant, his words emotional but certain; green but wise.

 

“I know you think I’m too young, okay? I know that. I might be twenty-five but I’m not an idiot, Ryan.”

 

“I don’t think you’re—”

 

“Just let me talk!” Mike raised a hand for emphasis, and then lowered his voice. _“Please.”_

 

Ryan shut up.

 

Mike continued boldly. “I know that half the Bureau didn’t think I had what it took to be an agent on this case. But I did, and I do. And I know what I want. And I just—I know _everything_ , all right? And I pretended not to because I didn’t think you _wanted_ me to know. But I do. I know how bad it looks when I run into the line of fire or hack someone’s e-mail for you. I know every time we work together, my career is jeopardy, and I know every time we’re in the field, one of us might not make it back. I know that. And I know everything about you, and your family, and your book, and I know how bad you need to win this and that there’s a good chance you won’t. I know you didn’t want my help then, but I know you need it now. I know you don’t plan to make it out of this alive, that you’re ready to die if that’s what it takes, and I know I can do _everything_ to change that, and I _still_ might lose you. And I know how hard it is for you to sleep, how much you toss and turn and think, because I’ve been right there beside you when you do it. I knew from day one that water meant vodka and lunch meant drinking and I know you’re a sub-par-functioning alcoholic. I know you’re one more reckless electrical current away from a heart attack. I know you keep everyone at a distance, not so _you_ don’t get hurt, but so you don’t hurt them. I know you do it because you think you’re bad for everyone, especially for me, because you think I have everything going for me and somehow you’ll tear it all down, but you’re way off. You’re way off, Ryan! Okay?! I’ve got this job and you. And that’s it. And I know you’re holding on to the past because it’s familiar and because it’s so much easier than dealing with the present, with right now. But this _is_ right now, Ryan. _I_ am right now! And I’m telling you, I _know_ , I know everything and I’m still here. Okay? I know you push people away because you figure, well, inevitably, they’re gonna find out and they’re gonna leave _but I didn’t leave you!_ And I’m not going anywhere. I know everything and _I’m. still. here._ I guess what I’m saying is, I know who you are, Ryan. And I love you anyway.”

 

By the time Mike was finished, he was breathless and close to tears – and they were both drenched. Ryan just stared at him, just breathed, just tried to take it all in and adjust to the sense of relief washing over him at the realization that Mike hadn’t been as blind to it all as he’d thought. That he was taking things in better stride than Ryan had given him credit for, with more grace than even he himself was capable of. No one had ever been that understanding, and it was a good feeling, but it was new and foreign. The people in Ryan’s past had always reacted to his aloofness with hostility, to his vices with resentment, to his addictions with ultimatums. But Mike was fully acknowledging not only Ryan’s flaws, but his own, and the ones they had together, and the entire dysfunctional, hopeless situation as a whole – and accepting it for what it was. Parker was wrong. Mike knew exactly what he was getting into.

 

He was Halley’s Comet.

 

“I just wanted to tell you,” Mike added, after a silence. “That I know and it’s okay. That I don’t have some delusional, idealistic picture of how it all should turn out, and I’m not, you know, only hanging around for when it’s good, I’m…I’m in it for the long haul. I mean, if you’ll let me.”

 

Ryan smiled, cautious but genuine. He nodded once. “Okay.”

 

And Mike smiled back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

**V.**

 

_It’s all we’re all looking for_   
_It’s never too late, you know_   
_To try and matter to the ones who matter most_

 

*

 

Joe’s death toll remained stagnant for two weeks, and six followers had been captured or killed, and then all activity subsided, though Ryan knew it was a temporary lull. It was the best him or anyone could hope for. Still mountainously grim, but all things considered, the FBI took it as a win.

 

Brooklyn, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to the chaos or the victory. It was quiet and dark and calm.

 

“You know I’m still gonna worry about it,” Ryan said, from the kitchen. “Even if you tell me not to.”

 

They’d watched the news for all of six minutes before the inaccuracy of the reporting and the media romanticism was too much to deal with on a day off. Instead they ended up discussing Ryan’s theory that everything he touched – or, rather, everyone he loved – seemed to die.

 

Across the room, Mike finished untying his shoes and looked up. “The Ryan Hardy Death Curse,” he announced, grinning and then rolling his eyes. “I’m shaking.”

 

Ryan indulged him for a second, but then walked over, expression staid. “I’m serious,” he said. “It’s real, Mike.”

 

“It’s superstition.”

 

“Well, either way,” Ryan swiped the air dismissively and got into bed. “You’ve already cheated death more than once on my watch. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t make it to twenty-six.”

 

Mike stood up and walked over to him. “Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s say it’s real. What if I break it?”

 

Ryan squinted. “What do you mean?”

 

Mike shrugged, “I mean, what if I’m the one who breaks the curse, Ryan? What if…what if it stops here, with me? What if I don’t die? What if I live, and we make it? Then won’t it all be worth it?”

 

Ryan shifted. He actually hadn’t ever considered that idea with any seriousness. It seemed like too much of a long shot; too much good fortune for him to possibility be graced with. And yet, it was Mike’s go-to answer; his first and his only response to what was a historically alarming, if not terrifying, pattern in Ryan’s past.  Mike’s faith, even when the odds were stacked against them, had a way of balancing out Ryan’s cynicism and doubt. You could say it might have even been all they needed in order to get through.

 

Ryan reached for Mike’s arm and tugged him down beside him. “What if, huh?”

 

“Yeah,” Mike nodded, looking in his eyes. “What if.”

 

 

*

 

 


End file.
